Thorgiljassaga
by gleisir
Summary: A young Orc woman visits Riften and explores its underworld - despite those who would rather her leave town for good. (The first chapter is necessarily long; the others will be shorter!)
1. Chapter 1

The Riften guard removed his leather gloves, rubbing his hands together briskly. It was only three thirty, but the sun had already disappeared behind the tops of the trees in the distance, and small clumps of wet snow fell from the trees as the guard turned to the sullen brazier in the corner. He stooped to feed some small charcoal blocks onto the pile of glowing embers. Footsteps stumped up the stairway and something knocked on the underside of the hatch behind him.

The guard put his gloves back on before reaching for the metal ring and pulling up the slush-sodden door. "Ho, Brint," said a voice, followed by a pair of hands which held up a small iron kettle. Inside the kettle was a small cloth bag and a crude wooden mug.

"Ho, Sig. Thanks."

"That's all right, my friend. Just don't leave the kettle up here to freeze, eh? Bring it back when you come down for dinner."

"I'll do that," Brint said, pawing clumsily at the cloth bag. He took a deep sniff of its contents. "Thanks, again."

Sig thumped the door shut, assisted by the wind, as Brint turned to place the mug and cloth bag on the floor next to the brazier. He took the kettle to the large water barrel and set it on the ground; he used the hilt of his dagger to break the thin ice and dunked the kettle inside. Humming tunelessly, he set the kettle on the brazier, and steam furled up from the water on the outside of the kettle.

Brint pulled up a tall stool close to the brazier and sat with a soft rustling and clanking of mail and leather. He clapped his hands together inside their gloves and stared out across the great white plain. The shadows were long on the ground, but there were still places where light glittered off the snow in the distance. Brint watched the kettle impatiently, willing the water to heat faster. Only a few more hours before he could go inside and eat something hot and drink some mead. He hated walltop watches as much as the next person, but Sig's tea deliveries usually helped at least somewhat. There was always the long wait, though, before the water boiled, and it always seemed like an empty eternity to Brint.

Some time later, the water was steaming promisingly and Brint was considering lighting the oil-soaked torches on the wall. He liked to have the extra light and heat, but wall commanders were continually warning guards not to waste fuel, and that lighting the torches too soon made it difficult to see at dusk. Brint saw their point, but decided that since he was the one sitting out in the wind and snow, he was entitled to light the torches a little early.

He had taken the first few torches off the wall and lit them on the brazier, when he saw something approaching on the road. Brint blinked hard and squinted into the wind. It _was_ harder to see with the torches lit. The figure approached steadily and became a small armored person, leaning into the wind. Brint rubbed his eyes. No horse? No wagon? This person had come alone and surely had been travelling all day. The figure continued to approach unhurriedly, reaching up to adjust its hood over its helmet.

Brint called into the wind, but the figure didn't look up, now trudging through the shadow of the guardtower. Muttering something under his breath, Brint dipped the wooden cup into the kettle and threw some leaves into it, then carefully carried it down the ladder and towards the hooded figure, which was now studying the securely closed town gate.

"Greetings, traveler," Brint said loudly. The figure turned and jerked a little in surprise, though whether at Brint's sudden appearance or at the proffered mug of tea it was hard to say. It wore a dark cloak and red hood and gloves over heavy armor, and a steel burgonet with a falling buffe shielding its face from the wind. It did not move to accept the tea, staring at Brint. He cleared his throat and continued,

"Town gate's closed for the night. Been having some trouble with unsavories sneaking in after dark, see. So we close it every night and don't let anyone in without they get cleared by a guard first. Here, before you take your death of cold. What's your business here? Where are you coming from?"

The stranger lifted its hands and unfastened the buffe, revealing a young Orc woman. She accepted the tea and raised the cup to her lips, draining the hot liquid in one long, careful draught. Brint tried to discreetly study the buffe, which, like her helmet, was expertly hammered and etched with strange designs. "I thank you," she said, and her deep voice brought him back to attention. "I'm glad to have made it to safety tonight. My horse died yesterday and I've been on foot since. From Windhelm."

"What brings you here from Windhelm?" Brint asked.

"Business." The Orc gestured vaguely to the large pack on her back. "I deal in jewels and ore. There are some say that Riften's the place to buy and sell jewels."

"Buy and sell is one word for it," said Brint darkly. "You'll not want to go talking overmuch about your cargo in mixed company. There's plenty here would be glad to relieve you of your load."

"I thank you. I'll take heed," said the Orc politely. She looked pointedly at the gates.

Brint took the hint. "Let's get you inside and out of this wind. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" He turned and started to climb the ladder.

"No," the Orc said, following. "I have the coin to pay for a room, though."

"It's the Bee and Barb you'll be wanting, then," shouted Brint over his shoulder as he reached the top and went to the barracks door. "Come along and I'll show you there."

Brint lifted the trapdoor and swung himself down into the warm ladderway to the barracks. The Orc followed easily, though a bit encumbered by her armor, pack, and frozen limbs. Brint called for one of his fellow guards to take his place until his return, and someone slunk past them to climb the ladder to the wall. The woman paid no attention to the quick, pointed looks she received from some of the guards, who went silent as she and Brint passed through the room. Out once again into the cold, though the wind was now mostly blocked by the massive wooden town gate.

"So, what brings an Orc here?" asked Brint conversationally.

She appeared to take no notice of his question, her gaze darting down narrow alleyways and into doorways as they walked. She said, "You mentioned unsavories."

"So I did. You're likely not in any real bodily danger here, mind, but best be careful of your belongings and keep your mouth shut about your business here if you're the type to enjoy a little mead with your supper. It's happened many a time that someone gets a little too free with their words and ends up with nothing but an empty purse and an aching head at the end of it all."

"Unsavories like who?" she persisted.

She noticed Brint's eyes flash around them, as if to make sure that no one could hear him say, "You've heard of the Thieves' Guild up in Windhelm." It wasn't a question, and he looked suddenly very serious. The friendliness that had been in his voice had vanished, and his voice was hard as he continued, "They used to be this high and mighty guild, but now they're like stinking rats in a sewer, picking off the plates of honest folk like yourself. They frighten all the tourists away and most of the business, too. It's rare these days to see a jewel trader like yourself. You're a brave woman."

"I guess that's one word for it," she said.

They stopped in front of a large, thickset building. Muffled music and laughter seeped under the door, and warm firelight glowed in the windows. "This is the Bee and Barb. I need to be off back to the barracks, but you'll find a warm bed and a decent meal here for an honest price, and no one will enter your room. The keeper takes security seriously. Come find me at the wall if you need anything while you're here."

"Thank you." She gripped his hand and shook it. "You've been most kind. Thank you again for the tea."

He walked away and she pushed the door open. A few minutes later, the Orc was hanging her wraps and hood to dry in front of her room's brazier, and soon lying down to sleep with daggers under her pillow. _Rats in a sewer._

The next morning, the young Orc rose and packed her bag to take with her. The day had dawned cold and clear, though not windy, so Thorgilja forewent the heavy wraps and simply threw on her cloak over her leather and mail.

"Hey," said a low, aggressive voice, not twenty paces down the road from the inn. Thorgilja turned to find a surly man studying her from an alleyway a few feet away. He leaned on a wooden pillar. "I don't know you. You here lookin' for trouble?"

The Orc stared back at him. _I'm not afraid of you, Nord. _He folded his arms.

"Well?"

"Business."

"What kind of business?" he demanded.

"Mine."

The Nord stood up straight and unfolded his arms. "Look, Orc, you don't want trouble here, see? Name's Maul. I know everybody. So keep your nose clean and your stupid mouth shut. Got it?"

"You know everyone?" she asked calmly. "And everyone knows you?"

"That's right."

"Important man," she concluded. "What kind of business do _you_ do, then, Nord?"

The Nord took a few aggressive steps towards the Orc, who didn't move, but stood straight. He looked around and hissed, "Look. I watch the streets here, okay? So, like I said, watch your step."

"Maybe you could give me some directions, then. Since you know everyone," Thorgilja suggested with a hint of frost. Her palms were tingling.

At this, Maul straightened up again and gave Thorgilja quite a different look: furtive, calculating. He evidently made a decision and retreated back into the alleyway. Thorgilja waited for a moment and walked away, around the other side of the building, and met him behind a wagon in the narrow alley. She held a small cloth bag in her hand. She tossed it to Maul, who weighed it in his hand. He shook it to listen to the silvery clinking inside.

"All right. I didn't tell you this, see? But if it's something you're looking for of a certain...secret...nature, look for Brynjolf. He's the big ginger bastard runs a booth in the market. That way, down the river." Maul jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the appropriate direction.

"Thanks," she murmured, and started off down the street without looking back. The market was filled with merchants crying their wares, most of which were obviously stolen. Thorgilja pretended to browse. She picked up a small amulet and turned it in her fingers, listening intently to the voices around her. She thought she heard a deep laugh coming from somewhere to her left.

"Five hundred for that, Orc," rasped the hooded Argonian behind the table.

Snapped out of her concentration, Thorgilja tossed the amulet back on the table. "Five hundred?" she said softly, seeming to speak to herself.

"Don't put your grubby hands on my merchandise if you can't pay for it," the merchant shot back.

Thorgilja looked at her hands, and opened and closed them a few times, leather gauntlets creaking. She could feel the muscle on her forearms tightening and relaxing with each soft clench of her fists, and her quiet smile spread. Her shoulders and hips seemed to settle and then to subtly brace. She felt the ever-present thrumming warmth ebbing and flowing in her muscles, waiting, wanting to expand in a white-hot rush. Her private smile disappeared as she remembered her harrier. She was of a height with the man, and she raised her head and met his fierce glare like stone.

"Well, are you buying something?" he demanded, a little shrilly.

"No."

"Then quit wasting my time!"

Thorgilja turned and shouldered her way through the crowd, now listening again to the general commotion and trying to sift voices from the noise. Once again she heard the deep laugh a little ahead of her, and pushed towards it.

A huge, red-haired and red-bearded Nord stood in a group of people, with a large tankard in his hand. It slopped suds over its brim as he gestured widely, evidently telling a story. The people around him laughed, and one man slapped the Nord on the shoulder, wiping his eyes. Thorgilja stopped for a moment, not wishing to obviously focus her attention on the man. How to approach him? It was already obvious that an Orc woman was not a common sight in these parts. She would be noticed.

She pushed through the crowd and off to the Nord's left, hoping to secretly get closer. She stole a few more glances at the Nord, Brynjolf, if that was who he was. His lamellar cuirass was of high quality, but well-worn. A few of the plates had recently been replaced. The helmet on the table next to him had a wavy bit where Thorgilja supposed that a deep dent had been skilfully hammered back into shape.

Thorgilja felt something brush her side; in the press of people, she almost didn't notice the gentle tug on the small purse slung at her hip. Without looking, she snapped her left hand back to grab the wrist of the thief, who turned out to be a withered crone with a toothless snarl on her face, with three fingers in Thorgilja's purse. The woman tried to free her wrist, but only succeeded in twisting the bones of her hand painfully. Thorgilja tightened her grip ever so slightly, and turned a little to observe the woman who was now releasing a stream of curses, saliva flying.

Thorgilja let her stony gaze travel slowly over the woman, ignoring the curses which were growing louder and cruder by the moment. Filthy, thin, but not starving, voice gravelly with years of drink and smoke. Clumsy stitch lines veined the old woman's cloak, evidently hand-done. The boots on her feet were nearly new, Thorgilja noted, though they looked to be too big for her.

The Orc's eyes flicked around the crowd. Most people seemed to take only cursory notice of the commotion. Back to the woman, who was still hissing. "You stupid, filthy Orc bitch, how dare you put your stinking paws on me? People _know_ me, you stupid shit-eater. You don't know who you're dealing with, you dumb horker, and you'll _never_ leave Riften alive after-"

Thorgilja flicked a blade into her right hand from her sleeve and slashed at a small bulge in the woman's cloak. Coins, jewels, jewelry, and various trinkets spilled out onto the ground. There was a sudden swarm of people diving at the ground, clawing at necklaces and rings. The crone screeched, and the Orc let go of her hand to let her join the group scrabbling at the cobblestones.

"Ah," said Thorgilja mildly, and turned away. There was a bark of laughter from a table to her right, and she turned. The crowd had pushed her closer to the gigantic Nord and his group, and Thorgilja blinked in surprise to note that they seemed to be laughing at her. One man, filthy, helpless with mirth, leaning heavily with one hand on the large pine table, gestured at her. "A mug of mead for the stonepurse!" he yelled to no one in particular, swaying dangerously, and there was a general roar of assent. Thorgilja glanced around the group of about ten men – most well-armored and well-armed, some battle-scarred, and all drunk. She watched carefully as the laughing man grabbed a tankard from the table and filled it sloppily at the barrel.

"You called me stonepurse," she said to the laughing man as he shoved the tankard into her hand. Mead splashed her brigandine.

"Huh. Right! Can't cut _your_ purse, see?" He leaned close; his breath was vinegary and sour. "You're not from these parts. You sure showed Arla, ehhhh?" He chortled.

"The old hag didn't know what hit her," chuckled another, older man. He was one of the only people in the group who wore no armour, but instead wore a rumpled set of blue robes. A long scar unfurled across his left cheek, widening as it approached his ear. When he smiled, the left side of his face remained largely frozen, with only his green eyes twinkling at his companions. He continually pushed his grey-streaked, reddish hair out of his face with his hand; the grace of the movement seemed out of place.

"It was well done," said an earthy voice. Thorgilja turned her head to see the huge Nord studying her. His words didn't sound entirely complimentary. "Arla might be a bit of a joke when you catch her red-handed, but catching her is no easy thing. She's been lifting purses since before the Great War. You're quick."

Thorgilja took a sip of mead as he spoke, and didn't reply.

"Well, lucky you made an example of _her_ before...someone else...tried their hand," burbled the laughing man.

"I make no examples. She got herself caught," Thorgilja said. Something in her tone made the man hesitate a little.

"Sure, I meant no offense," the laughing man said uncertainly, belching.

"I took none. Thank you kindly for the mead." Thorgilja glanced at him and softened her gaze. He eased, and turned to fill his tankard again. Thorgilja raised her mug again, and looked around. Most of the men had grown bored and gone back to the conversations they'd been having before she arrived. The man who she supposed to be Brynjolf was watching her look around the group. Their eyes met. Thorgilja lowered her mug.

The Nord cleared his throat, and Thorgilja noticed one or two of the men around him stop to listen. "So," he said. "What are you called, stonepurse?"

"Thorgilja."

He repeated the name, stumbling a little over the end. "So, Thorgilja, what are you doing in a backwater like Riften?"

_Careful._ She looked straight at him. "Business."

"Oh? And what business would that be?"

"I don't tell strangers my affairs." She watched his face. He hesitated one tiny moment, and then smiled. He had deep laugh lines around his eyes.

"Right you are, Orc. Where are my manners?" He wiped his hand on his trousers and extended it to her. "I'm Brynjolf." She shook his hand. It was warm and slightly damp. "You've a strong grip!" he said, and then smiled as though a little surprised at himself. "I mean, for a lass. But then, you are an Orc."

"I grew up mining and smithing at a stronghold."

"Ah! A needful art, that." He released her hand but did not withdraw his own, gesturing for her mug. "Another splash of mead to wet the tongue?"

"My thanks." She handed him the tankard and watched as he turned to fill it at the barrel.

"So, a smith, eh?" he said, handing her back the mead. "Afraid we've already got our Balimund to keep our weapons sharp. He might be seeking help, though, with the Stormcloaks and Imperials denting each others' armour these days."

"I'm no longer a smith by trade," said Thorgilja. "though I can see your smith is a fine worker." She thrust her chin at the helmet on the table. "That's an excellent repair."

"Glad to hear it." His tone was casual, though his eyes hardened. "So, not a smith, then. So what _is_ your business here? Not many come to Riften for the beauties of the season." Brynjolf raised his mug and drank.

"Like I said. I don't tell strangers my affairs." The Orc slid her gaze from side to side, indicating the crowd around them.

One of the men behind her, overhearing, stood up and dropped his gloved hand heavily onto her shoulder, hissing into her ear. "You'll show some respect to those whose mead you're drinking, Orc."

Thorgilja didn't turn. "Is this how Riften folk treat guests?" she asked Brynjolf, who looked somewhere between amused and embarrassed.

"Guests?" the man blurted. "I see no _guests_ here, Orc, just a-"

"Enough," said Brynjolf. He shot a warning look over Thorgilja's shoulder. "There's been no disrespect done here, Thrynn. The lass is wise to be cautious." His gaze settled back on Thorgilja as Thrynn removed his hand from her shoulder and sulkily withdrew.

"Besides, you idiot, she's an _Orc_," said another voice from the other side of the table. "She could rip your arm off soon as shake your hand." There was a cluster of laughter. Thorgilja set her half-full mug down carefully, wiping her mouth with the back of her other hand. _Yes. Yes, I probably could._ She took no sneering pleasure, the way some of her kind did, at the fearsome reputation which preceded them wherever they went; nor, however, did she cringe and try to curry favour, as some others did. She took note of the group's reaction: a few, drunk, laughing loudly, harmless; one or two, smiling uneasily, taking enigmatic sips of ale, staring into their cups; two, at the corner of the table furthest from her, muttering darkly to each other (she took careful note of their faces); one, Brynjolf, watching her. She stared at him stonily.

"This Orc _is_ our guest," said Brunjolf, turning his gaze to the rest of the group, raising his voice very slightly. "She's drunk of our own mead from our own mugs. I'll hear no more of this old wives' tale nonsense."

"But-" smiled the laughing man, his brightening face indicating some impending witticism.

"Aw, will you put a cork in it, Torsten," growled the blue-robed mage. He sat down heavily on the bench. "Please, miss, sit down," he said, slapping the bench next to him. "Take some weight off your boots, as they say. I like to hear of the travels of young people, and you've travelled a long way."

"I thank you kindly," Thorgilja said, "but I must be going." She drained her mug in one draught and set it down a little forcefully on the table. She extended her hand for the mage to shake. "Thorgilja."

"Marten." She noted that he didn't hesitate to grasp her hand; evidently he didn't fear having it torn off.

"Thank you, Marten, for your kind offer. I don't refuse hospitality lightly, but I have other affairs to attend to. I hope we'll meet again sometime, though my stories are perhaps not the exciting ones you'd like to hear." She released his hand, and straightened.

"Leaving so soon, Orc-lass?" Brynjolf crinkled his eyes at her. Thorgilja was accustomed to hearing the word "Orc" practically spat, as though it were a curse, but Brynjolf seemed to be one of the few people who could say it almost pleasantly. Thorgilja searched for a thread of menace in his tone, but could find none.

She ignored the question and extended her hand again. Before she could speak, Brynjolf took her hand in a strong grip and yanked her close. She had a second of panic – _no, not here – _before she realized he was speaking to her in a low voice. She bent her head to listen.

_ "No need for any of your, em, very polite thank-yous, but come see me at the Ragged Flagon down the canal if you need...advice...about your, ah, business. Might be I could help you. Don't go shouting it, mind, but the name __Brynjolf__ still means something in these parts." He still gripped her hand, and Thorgilja fought the urge to wrench free. "Don't mind the others. The drink does most of the talking for them, more's the pity. Watch your step, though, lass. Folk like Arla may look simple, but the webs in this town go deeper and darker than you might think." He straightened, released Thorgilja's hand. She nodded, then turned to Torsten, who had in the meantime practically collapsed across the table as if his legs had suddenly transformed into matchsticks and immediately snapped. Thorgilja clapped her hand on his shoulder, making him jump and nearly fall off the bench he was haphazardly sprawled on. "Another drink for Torsten," she said, giving the back of his head a rare smile, and filled the mug that he'd accidentally flung halfway across the table. She set it down beside him and left without looking at either of the men who watched her go._


	2. Chapter 2

Thorgilja left the market and wandered up and down side-streets. She'd lied when she'd said she had other affairs to attend to; she could have stayed at the table, but it had seemed best to leave, and it never hurt to take a long, aimless walk now and again. Away from the frantic ruckus of the market, Riften's streets were quiet and somewhat mushy; snow melting in the street made shallow, scummy puddles everywhere, occasionally churned by the passing of a cart or barrow. Thorgilja could hear a few children's voices playing from an apartment above, but then a window shutter slammed and the street was quiet again. A cat slunk furtively from one doorway to another.

Now a steep, slippery wooden stairway led down below the level of the street, to a series of boardwalks above the dark waters of the canal. Thorgilja descended them carefully, her boots creaking on the wood; there was a bridge in front of her. A feeble torch illuminated a small, grubby sign: an alchemist's shop. Further around the bend, there was a half-sunk boat tied to a piling, and an archway lit by a sputtering oil lamp, with a single small door in the center. She eyed the muddy slush around the door, with only five or six sets of prints in it – not trampled enough for a regular tavern's comings and goings. A strange symbol was carved next to the door. Thorgilja reached to trace it with her fingers. This must be it. She'd come back tomorrow.

Up the stairs again, this time to find the smith Balimund. This was part of Thorgilja's routine every time she visited a city or stronghold; there was often honest coin and easy gossip to be had around a smith's forge, and she genuinely liked to be around the heat and noise, swinging the heavy tools of the trade which were so familiar that she sometimes felt as though she must have been born with hammer and tongs in her fists. Her daggers could use honing, too, and she had ore to trade.

Passersby directed Thorgilja to a massive open forge, with an equally massive blond Nord, who she took to be Balimund, hammering away at what looked like a gorget on an anvil. He had a short beard that was flecked with grey, which he scratched occasionally. He stopped his work every so often to stir the coals in the forge, muttering darkly to himself. His grey eyes kept flicking to a pile of iron rods. Thorgilja watched him for a moment – this was definitely the man who had made the repairs to Brynjolf's helmet, judging from his ease with hammering the metal into shape. The door to the smith's shop banged open and an assistant came hurrying out, slipping on the slick cobblestones near the door. "Balimund, I'm going to run to the shop and buy some more needles–"

"Eight curse it, boy, you've broken another set? The whole set?" Balimund sounded almost absent-mindedly annoyed, as though this were a conversation the two had often. "What do you _do_ with those needles?"

"I'm sorry, it's just this cuirass I'm repairing – dwemer-treated leather..."

"Fine, fine, of course, I didn't mean to shout. Of course. Go get a few extra sets so we don't lose so much time next time you break the whole set, eh? Hurry! We need that cuirass repaired by tomorrow sundown, don't forget! And this sword needs- oh, just go!"

The assistant rushed off, but Balimund had already returned to his work, still muttering. Thorgilja stepped forward and put a hand on the large bellows standing to one side of the forge. "Balimund," she said.

He turned his great head, looking rather like a bear that has been interrupted eating. He glanced at her suspiciously, then noticed her hand on the bellows. "Yes?" he asked gruffly. "I'm Balimund," he added, as though suddenly remembering his manners.

"You look like you could use a hand," said Thorgilja.

"You a strongholder?" he asked. He turned his great frame to the side to grab a damp, soot-streaked cloth from a small table strewn with tools. He wiped his forehead with it. "As it happens, I could. My assistant's busy with some leatherwork today, and to be honest, we're a little busier than normal. I'd thank you for your help, miss. I really need to begin the core of this sword tonight. We're gettin' behind. Think you can bring this up to full blast?"

Thorgilja took the bellows in hand and began working the forge. It had been some time since she'd worked bellows, and she went at it with a grim pleasure. The clanging of Balimund's hammer and the hiss of quenched metal blended with the puffing of the bellows; working the forge for only one smith was no great task for her, and Thorgilja found herself slipping into a familiar sort of trance. It happened sometimes when she was doing repetitive work, especially around the heat of the forge. The next thing she knew, the assistant was back from the shop with several sets of needles clutched in his hands, wide-eyed, staring at her. Then she realized that the smith had stepped away from the anvil and was standing a little to her side and behind her, evidently about to attempt to stop her working. The light in the sky had dimmed to dusk.

Thorgilja immediately stepped back from the forge and put the bellows down. "Your pardons," she murmured, a little embarrassed.

The assistant muttered something under his breath. Balimund's head snapped around and he barked, "Dammit, boy, she's just a strongholder. Everyone knows they're practically born at the forge. Don't you go spouting such nonsense. Get inside and keep at that cuirass."

The young man didn't move for a moment, and looked about to say something.

"_How many times do I have to say it?_" Balimund thundered. He pointed at the shop door. The assistant fled, slamming the door.

"My apologies for the boy," the smith said, turning back to Thorgilja. "I think you uneased him a little."

"I- I didn't even hear what he said," she replied. "It probably wasn't the worst thing anyone has ever said to me. Nor even today." She shrugged and hoped she looked casual.

There was a small silence. The smith regarded her for a moment, then gestured at the workbench where he'd laid the long blade. "Anyway, it's been a help. I was able to get more done than I thought, for certain. You sure know your way around a bellows."

Thorgilja didn't reply. There was no way to explain. "I grew up mining and smithing," she replied finally, then, "Will you buy ore?"

"I may do. Come in. There's stew and ale. You must be in need of a meal same as me." He didn't wait for an answer, but strode to the door and banged it open. The cracked stones in the wall behind the door suggested that this was his normal way to enter the room. The shop wasn't actually a shop, but looked to simply be the smith's home.

The assistant sat in the corner by the fire, stirring a pot. He didn't look up as Balimund came in, evidently used to the door slamming open. "Balimund, where did you _find_ that-" He looked up, sneering, noticed Thorgilja behind Balimund, and sputtered, turning violently pink.

"Yes?" Balimund asked. "Where did I find...what?"

"Nothing."

"Damn right, nothing. This is our guest..." Balimund got an odd look on his face, and turned back to Thorgilja.

"Thorgilja," she supplied, staring at the assistant. His eyes met hers for an instant, then turned sullenly to the floor at her feet.

"Right. Thorkilly." He nodded at this and turned back. "And if you can't quit pissing on the coals and start acting like an adult, you can take your meal out by the forge tonight."

The assistant turned even deeper red, then white. His mouth twisted. He turned jerkily and slopped some brown stew into a wooden bowl, tore a chunk of bread from the loaf on the table and shoved it into the stew; he then snatched a battered tankard from the table, and started quickly for the door. Thorgilja hoped against hope that he would go quietly; after long weeks on the road with little to no company, she had forgotten how tiring she found it to be around multitudes of people, and her temper was beginning to fray.

The entryway was narrow, and the assistant had to slide past them to reach the door. With ale in one hand and stew in the other, he frowned at the door as he approached. Thorgilja turned to open it for him. He drew up sharply to avoid touching her, and sloshed ale on the front of his shirt.

"Watch it, _grunter_," he spat, which was the one word she'd hoped not to hear. _Oh no,_ she had time to think. _Not-_

Heat burst and spilled across her palms, then seared up her arms and into her chest quicker than she could breathe, or even blink. She snapped up to her full height; her hand flashed up; she sensed rather than saw Balimund's hand go for the hammer at his hip, as everything around her seemed to slow. She slapped the bowl out of the assistant's hands, smashing it in pieces on the floor, then snatched the tankard from his other hand and flung its contents into his face. He spluttered and swore, backing away. Thorgilja's vision was blurring, going red at the edges, and she felt her mouth contorting viciously, her throat tightening; she gasped for breath and tore the heavy door open, expecting to feel Balimund's hammer strike her shoulder at any moment and praying that she wouldn't have to hurt him, and though the assistant was trying to escape into the yard, she seized his shirt and hauled him back towards her. She thought she heard shouting from somewhere.

Thorgilja wrenched the young man around to face her and shook him until his teeth chattered, then slammed him down into the muddy snow, handling him as she might have a snarling dog. He was trying to yelp something, and his fists waved weakly in the air. Thorgilja shoved a fistful of snow and gravel into his mouth to shut him up, then slammed him into the ground again, her fists driving into his chest. He jerked and went limp, choking wetly. Thorgilja lurched to her feet. "Grunter!_" _she roared, spit flying. The assistant stayed sprawled in the slush, whimpering and coughing. She screamed the word at him again and spun to get away from him before she did him worse injury. Her arms threw themselves out blindly to both sides to steady her as she staggered almost drunkenly. She fought frantically to keep her feet moving away from the assistant. She knew that if he got up to follow her, she wouldn't be able to stop herself from killing him. Luckily, he lay motionless in the snow.

She tried to look for the smith. The world had drained of color, except for the red tint over everything. He was standing in the doorway, huge hammer in hand, partly raised. He looked like he was about to shout something, or start towards the assistant, but he didn't. She wanted to warn him, but didn't trust herself to speak. She staggered away and around the corner of the house.

Balimund looked over at Asbjorn, who was still sprawled in the snow. He didn't look to be seriously injured, thankfully. There was snow, ale and stew all over him. Balimund could hear the Orc's boots squelching through the muck, and then they stopped. He ran to the side of the house, and looked carefully around the corner.

At first he thought she was trying to climb the large pine for some reason, perhaps to hide or to put further distance between herself and Asbjorn. But then the tree trembled, and again, and again, showering needles onto the snow. Balimund tightened his grip on his hammer and sucked in his breath, hardly believing his eyes – she was _punching_ the tree, striking it over and over again with unbelievable force, one blow barely landing before the next struck. He cringed as he saw splinters flying. He looked up and down the street: luckily, it was normally quiet, and currently deserted.

Balimund looked down at his long, heavy striking hammer. The Orc was so intent on the tree that he could probably get close enough to hit her; she wore no helmet. But then, he'd seen her face inside, as she slapped the stew down. The politely awkward young woman was entirely gone, replaced by a furious Orc with eyes aflame and terrible speed and power – a berserker, he reminded himself, remembering the old stories. If he enraged her further, she could almost certainly kill him.

Balimund took a deep breath, then another one, and set his hammer down, leaning the handle against the wall. The Orc's punches were growing less savage, less wild; she blinked hard and shook her head sharply as if shaking water from her hair. He stepped cautiously towards her. She was delivering a few more kicks to the tree, which was badly mauled: she had gouged a deep, wide wound into its trunk. The air filled with the smell of sap. The Orc took a few huffing breaths, then punched the tree once more, and again, and one last time. She turned and slumped against the trunk. Balimund released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and continued slowly towards the tree.


	3. Chapter 3

Thorgilja turned around and leaned back against the tree, sagging into it. Her legs felt like thin reeds, trembling under her weight; she could barely stand. Her fists uncurled slowly, painfully. She gurgled a cough. There were pine needles everywhere. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying to clear her head. _How long...?_

Snow crunched. Her eyes flew open and she saw Balimund standing at a careful distance. She studied him warily – where was his hammer? He had been walking toward her, but stopped when she opened her eyes.

She tried to clear her throat, but it was still too tight. "It's not wise to be in my company right now," she warned. Her voice was a low, throaty growl. She hacked and spat into the snow.

Balimund swallowed, and showed her his empty hands. He gestured at the hammer which was well out of his reach. "I don't mean you any harm. You should come inside. If people see you...the tree..."

She nodded dazedly. The assistant surely wasn't the only one in this town who harbored dislike for Orcs; it was indeed a bad idea to stay out here. She stood up straight, but slowly, and turned to gaze at the tree. She gave a hollow laugh. _Eight protect me._ She looked down at her hands: her leather gauntlets were tatters. She worked the muscles of her right hand, then her left. She hadn't injured herself, luckily. It was said that berserkers' skin could harden like iron. She didn't know whether her skin actually hardened, but she had never been injured in a rage. If she hadn't stopped, she could have brought the tree down. She gave its trunk an apologetic pat.

She followed Balimund docilely back around the house, utterly exhausted. The door stood ajar: she had slammed it open so violently that one of the hinges had broken. She set it to rights as best she could while Balimund went to find a cloth to wipe up the congealed stew on the floor. He threw the cloth into a bucket, then silently retrieved another bowl and mug from a shelf and set them on the table. He led by example and filled his own bowl and mug, tearing another chunk of bread from the loaf. He sat and ate slowly, wordlessly, staring into space.

Thorgilja followed his example and ate shakily, chewing carefully around the gristle. It was good-tasting, though, and she ate almost in spite of herself. She reached the bottom of the bowl and then the bottom of her mug, and sat looking at the table, not sure what to do. She was bone-tired and felt horribly guilty. She'd hurt an innocent man – not a nice one, but an innocent one – as well as smashing up dishes, wasting food, damaging the door, and probably losing Balimund his assistant on top of it all. _A very nice start._ She clenched her teeth and studied the knots in the wood. Her eyes burned.

A soft clunk made her look up – Balimund was setting another bowl of stew in front of her, and another mug of ale. "I-"

"Eat. Drink," he ordered, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You're injured."

"No, I'm not." She showed him her hands.

He frowned down at her knuckles. "...Well, you're not well, that's plain to see," he said a bit gruffly. "You're at the Bee and Barb?"

"Yes."

"Best not go back there. Could be there's someone's heard or seen you go after Asbjorn, and there's not many other places to look for an out-of-towner." Balimund scratched his beard. "The boy's not one to come after you again, but his friends'll have questions, and he's got some pretty unsavory friends, more's the pity." He stayed standing, staring into the hearthfire for a moment, then went into another room. There was a low, authoritative click, some rustling noises, and then Balimund returned with an enormous, intricately-wrought warhammer, which he slung over his shoulder, and made for the door without a word. He closed it carefully behind him, and Thorgilja noticed that her mouth was open slightly. She closed it and blinked a few times at the door, and then noticed that she was still wearing her ruined gauntlets. She took them off and removed the rest of her light armor, leaving it stacked in the corner. She sat down again, smoothed her shirt, and picked up her spoon, as per Balimund's orders. Eat. Drink. She could do that.

The second bowl of stew was rather easier to eat than the first; at the very least, it didn't seem that Balimund was particularly upset about the night's events, and that was something. He hadn't attacked her with the hammer. She had managed to control herself before she seriously injured anybody. She even doubted that the assistant Asbjorn had been significantly hurt; maybe a few bruises and a chipped tooth or two, from the chunks of gravel she'd shoved in his mouth. She secretly hoped he'd swallowed a few pieces. She felt bad about the tree, but under the circumstances, she couldn't have done anything better, besides perhaps throwing herself down into the canal.

_Under the circumstances_. Yes, the circumstances of being constantly harassed and disdained and sworn at and spat on and laughed at, without the ability to reply. Words from her past came to her unbidden: "If you knock one man down for his words, you'll have to knock down all his friends, too, and then you'll be swinging for the rest of your life with nothing to show for it but a bitter heart and a bad reputation. Better to ignore them and live your life."

_Sigtrygg_. She couldn't think about him now. She shoved him out of her mind and picked up the dishes from the table. She wasn't sure where to put them, so scraped them out in the snow near the front door and cleaned them as best she could. She was rising to stand up straight when she heard angry voices, some ways off but coming nearer. As they got closer, she could hear someone shout, "She can't stay in there forever." She froze, still holding the bowls.

"Well, she's there tonight," Balimund's voice shot back, "and I'll have no more of this foolishness. Get to your own bed, Soren, before _I _ put you there."

"Now see here, Balimund," started a different voice hotly.

"_Enough!"_ the smith bellowed. There was a muffled thump.

That got her moving. Thorgilja thrust the bowls into the snow, darted to the corner of the house and peeked around. Balimund was standing in the middle of the slick street, facing away from her. He was in a defensive stance, looking again to her eyes like a bear, though there was no trace of good humor in him now. She recognized her large pack on his back, though he was wearing it oddly: one of the straps hung broken, and there was a large slash in the heavy canvas. Thorgilja's heart leaped into her throat. _What if they-_

No time for that. She looked for the others. There were four of them, all young and scrawny and tough; none were dressed for battle, but all wore some kind of weapon: a short sword, a pickaxe, a dagger, and, Thorgilja was momentarily distracted to note, a long, copper-tipped ebony cudgel. None of them had their weapons to hand, except Balimund, who had evidently smashed his hammer into a pile of soft dirt to illustrate a point. Its handle reached nearly up to Balimund's shoulder. The men wavered. Thorgilja was almost disappointed that she hadn't seen the smith wield his weapon.

"For shame," Balimund stormed. "All of you. You would bring even _more_ dishonor to us all? Are we to be a city of thieves, liars, _and_ idiot bigots now?"

_"She attacked Asbjorn!"_shouted the man with the cudgel. He took a step forward into the lamplight; Thorgilja could now see that he had the beginnings of a nasty black eye. For one fearful moment, she thought he would fling himself at Balimund. She tried to make herself as small as possible against the side of the building – it would surely go worse for everyone if she were seen now, and especially unarmed and unarmored.

"Asbjorn's mouth ran off with him and she taught him a lesson to protect her honor," Balimund snarled. "Any of you would have done the same. Is it your suggestion that she should eat any shit she's given? Who among _you_ would do that?" Thorgilja blinked and furrowed her brow.

"Asbjorn said-"

"I have heard enough from Asbjorn, and his every word tonight does him worse credit. He does you a disservice as well, by sending you to muddy your own mouths with his pettiness." He spread his hands. "Where is Asbjorn now? Why does he not come himself to avenge his honor, if that's what you're doing?"

"She nearly _killed_ him!" the man with the pickaxe hollered.

"She dirtied his shirt and pushed him in the snow," Balimund snapped, picking up his warhammer from the dirt. "If that's nearly killing him, then it's to his shame, not hers." He began wiping the hammer's head off carefully with the bottom of his shirt. "Whenever Asbjorn finishes telling you tales, you can tell _him_ from _me_ that he's not to be seen again near my forge." Balimund shouldered his warhammer. "Nor any of you." He turned his back on them and began to walk away. They stood as though turned to stone.

Thorgilja froze too. Should she go back to the forge, pretend she hadn't heard anything? They might hear her footsteps. Before she could decide, Balimund came around the corner of the building and nearly ran into her. He glanced over at her and kept walking as though he hadn't seen her. Thorgilja stayed at her post long enough to confirm that the men were walking away and not trying to sneak towards the forge. They stood for a moment, muttering amongst themselves and aiming quiet curses at the house, then turned and headed back in the direction of the tavern.

Balimund had left the door open behind him, and warm light spilled onto the snow. She followed the smith meekly into the house and shut the door carefully, trying to set the hinge as straight as she could. He took off her pack and laid it gently on the table, mindful of the tear, then went to put his warhammer away. He disappeared into the back room without a word.


	4. Chapter 4

Thorgilja was approaching the table to examine her pack when Balimund's voice came from the back room, making her jump: "I suppose you heard that Asbjorn isn't coming back."

"Y-...Yes." She swallowed and gently set her pack on the floor in the corner. Her inspections could wait until Balimund had said whatever he wanted to say. She sat down a little shakily on the bench opposite the fire to wait for him.

The smith reappeared in the doorway. He'd pulled his muddied shirt off to change it out for a new one, which he was flipping around in his hands in an effort to find the bottom. Thorgilja noticed two long, bold stripes of blue and purple on his chest and left shoulder, edged in an angry red rash. "Your...you- you're hurt!" she exclaimed hotly, before she could remember to be nervous, then blushed deeply, suddenly sharply guilty and angry all over again. She stared at the table and chewed a hangnail furiously.

"Hm?" Balimund tried to turn to look at her and pull on his shirt backwards at the same time. He mumbled and flapped around inside the shirt for a moment before pulling it on. He winced a little at the motion.

"I mean...your shoulder. It looks like it...must hurt."

Balimund didn't reply, but came into the room and stood looking at the front door. "Hinge's broken." He turned to stare sternly at Thorgilja.

Color flooded into her face and she forced herself to look miserably up at him. "I...I didn't... I'm sorry. I can fix it. Tomorrow. I..."

He sat down heavily on the seat opposite her, which creaked tiredly. He sighed, then evidently made a decision. He looked straight at her. "I'd like you to do something for me, Thorkilly."

"Please. Just name it."

"Outside, in the cabinet near the worktable. Top shelf, back-left corner."

She was at the door before he finished speaking. She opened the door carefully and went to the workshop, quickly finding the cabinet in the glow of the forge coals. It was about as tall as Thorgilja's hip, and was built from solid wood and iron. The wood shone golden in the glow of the forge, the iron a sullen black that refused to gleam. She supposed that Balimund had forged the hinges and latch himself; the door practically sprang open into her hand without a sound. She crouched and fumbled at the top shelf, not knowing what shape to expect.

The heavy bottle tipped onto its side with an authoritative thunk and began rolling towards the edge of the shelf, gurgling quietly. Thorgilja stifled a curse and caught it before it could crash onto the floor. It was too dark to see the label of the brown bottle, but its contents looked almost red in the forge light. She hurried back inside.

Balimund was just sitting down again at the table, his back to her. He turned as she entered the room. "Ah, yes. Give that here." She handed it quickly over. He turned it in his hands, then sat studying the label admiringly. There were two small ceramic cups on the table and he brought one towards him before realizing that the Orc was still standing just in front of the door, blinking nervously.

"Well? Sit, girl."

She sat. Balimund plucked one of the delicate cups from the table. It looked tiny in his hand, like a doll's cup. He filled it, set it down, and filled the other one. He handed one across to Thorgilja, who took it warily. The liquid inside wasn't red, she saw now, but a glowing amber.

"I know I could use one of these right about now," he said.

"What is it?"

"This is Cyrodillic brandy."

His tone was almost reverent, so Thorgilja made a non-committal noise that she hoped sounded worldly and appreciative. Balimund caught her gaze and his eyes crinkled up.

"Never had brandy before?"

Thorgilja shook her head, still studying the cup a little suspiciously. She was used to drinking mead and ale from tankards. Why such a small cup? Balimund turned the glass bottle so the label faced her. She couldn't read the hand-written script on the label, but it was fancifully bordered, hand-painted with delicate flowers and birds. The artwork alone was a sign of its value. She brought the small cup to her nose and sniffed, then snorted and nearly dropped it. Balimund chuckled as though in spite of himself. He shook his head.

"Do you often drink through your nose? No, here, let me show you. Just take a little at a time and let it run around your mouth. It practically swallows itself." He demonstrated, and a warm, private smile spread across his face. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. "Ah, that's it. Sure, it takes some getting used to. It's no horse-piss ale, that's for sure." He filled his cup again. "Got this off Talun-Jei, 'fresh off the cart', if you get my meaning. He says that rich folk have their own special glasses for drinking brandy. Can you imagine? An entire different _set_ of glass for just one drink. Talun-Jei says that it looks like gold when it's in clear glass. Looks pretty sweet just in these, though, too, eh?"

Thorgilja brought the little cup tentatively to her lips, sipped, and stifled a cough. A silky warmth spread over her tongue and around her cheeks, then down her throat and into her chest and stomach. It felt similar to the heat that had flashed from her hands earlier, but much slower, smoother, and _warm_, not hot, not fiery. It was instantly familiar and utterly strange. She took another tiny, hesitant sip and put the cup down. She must have had a curious expression on her face; the smith chuckled again.

"What are these, then?" asked Thorgilja, indicating the cup on the table. "Not brandy cups."

"No, not brandy glasses, no. Truthfully, they're a bit...erm...not entirely legal to have."

"These?" Thorgilja said a little disbelievingly, picking up the cup again. "They're cups." She took another sip of brandy, keeping her face mostly neutral this time.

"Yes indeed. Made for preparing skooma."

Thorgilja choked on the brandy left in her mouth. Some of it went up her nose and she sneezed mightily, somehow managing to cough at the same time. Her eyes watered freely. She saw something blue flutter onto the table, and grabbed for it: a rough, battered, but clean handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and nose, a little embarrassed. "Sk-skooma?" she wheezed. She wiped her nose again.

"Don't worry," Balimund grinned. "I never touched the stuff myself. But I had a friend some years ago who was in a bad way, and I helped him out. Didn't have much gold to pay, but he gave me these and a few other oddlings. I like 'em. Don't see much earth-glass around these days. Not many can shape it so fine in these parts. Must have come from down south."

Thorgilja studied her cup a little more closely. It was almost unbelievably thin. She turned it in her fingers. It was incredibly smooth, without a trace of grain under her fingertips. It was a dusty red color, decorated here and there with intricate black swirls and shapes. Balimund gestured for her cup, and she handed it back to him. He filled it. "I met a Khajiit once who had a cup like this. But not so fine. He said it's not wise to drink skooma from wood or metal. I don't know why."

He handed the cup back to her. "Now, Thorkilly." His tone was suddenly sober. "First cup for the guest, second for the host." He raised his own cup and drank a small sip. She did the same, sensing the ceremony behind his words. _A Nord ritual,_ she reminded herself. Nords were full of them, and Balimund especially seemed to hold tightly to the old customs.

"So." He put his cup down and folded his hands on the table, then cleared his throat. "So. I think I have an idea about what happened earlier, with Asbjorn. But I'd like to hear you tell it. You can probably tell it truer than me."

Thorgilja put her own cup down and took a deep breath. She stared down at her hands, thinking. "I...I lost control of myself," she finally said, slowly. "When I'm angry, or scared, sometimes, I...I get _really_ angry. Like you saw. And I can't stop it." She didn't want to say the word.

"Are you a..." He seemed to sense her discomfort. He scratched his beard. "Forgive me, but I need the truth of it. Are you a...sorry...are you a berserker?"

She nodded tightly. He nodded slowly, musingly.

"So, when Asbjorn called you...that, you...got angry."

She looked up at him again, and he was taken aback at the depth of anguish in her eyes. Her gaze snapped back down to the table and her words suddenly came out in a rush, like he'd breached a dam. "I tried. I _tried_ to stop it, I tried not to hurt him, I mean I didn't really want to hurt him, but I was so tired, I'd been on the road for weeks, alone, you see, and I just forgot what it's like..." She raised a hand to her hair and grabbed a fistful, squeezing it tightly. "I forgot what it's like to be around people. Other people, strangers. And I wasn't paying attention. I should have – I should have known better. But I couldn't stop it." Balimund was leaning forward a little, his gaze somewhere between contrite, confused, and fierce. He was startled at how young she was, suddenly – he'd originally taken her for thirty, maybe thirty-five, but without her armor and her stiff courtesy it was clear that she was in her mid-twenties.

She was still trying to explain. "It's like...it's like..." She stopped, then met Balimund's gaze. "I almost killed him." Balimund was about to protest. "No, I mean...I know that I didn't really hurt him, actually. But I almost did. I...I had to work very hard to _not_ kill him." Her gaze was pleading; she was desperate for him to understand. A chill ran down Balimund's spine as he remembered her rearing up, like a snake about to strike, or a sabre cat about to pounce. It was true. Death had been in her eyes. Though he would never have admitted it to anyone else, he had been thoroughly unnerved in truth, almost terrified. And the way that she'd shaken Asbjorn...Asbjorn was a young man with some growing still to do, to be sure, but he was also a smith's apprentice, strong and quick in his own right. But she'd handled him without any sign of strain, or even hesitation.

"So that's why you walked away," he prompted. It made sense, now. He'd wondered at her sudden loss of coordination, as though she'd been drugged. She'd barely been able to stand up and stagger away.

"Yeah...I had to. If he'd come after me or even got up, I would have killed him. And I didn't want to. So I tried to get away." There was a small silence, during which Balimund tried to imagine what might have happened if she hadn't, or if he'd lifted his hammer against her.

"I suppose I'm lucky I didn't try to interfere," Balimund said after a moment.

"Yes. I was hoping you wouldn't. I don't know what would have happened." She turned away to look into the fire.

"You'd have killed me, too." It wasn't a question. She nodded a little, still looking into the flames.

"The question really is, how many?" she asked softly.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a long silence while the pair finished their drinks. Thorgilja had many questions, but she was unsure of the protocol. _First drink for the guest, second for the host._ Then what?

Balimund noticed the questions making their way onto her face. "Here." He handed her his cup. "Clean these out in the snow, will you? And bring this brandy back where you found it." She went to obey, and came back to find him with two tankards, which he was filling from a large green bottle.

Thorgilja put the ceramic cups on the table and accepted a tankard from Balimund. She joined him at the table again. "Brandy's good for settling the stomach," he observed, "but too much is too much. Time for some mead. I think we'll be at this for a while yet."

Mead was more familiar, and Thorgilja took a grateful sip. "Can...can I ask you a question?"

"I suppose I've asked you enough," Balimund said. "Strike away."

"You went to the inn, right? Were those men there? Did they do this?" She gestured at the pack lying in the corner.

"Aye, I found the weasels in your room. Must have either bought someone off or climbed in the window. The Bee's locks have a little habit of unlocking themselves if there's a good enough reason." He took a long drink of mead. "Keerava didn't seem to know they were there, though, so maybe one of em's been taking lockpicking lessons." He snorted. "That's probably it. There's none of them bright enough to fool her, and she wouldn't risk the mark to her reputation for just those rats. She was pretty angry when I told her where I found them. Anyway, it doesn't matter how. They didn't take anything, did they? It looked like they were just getting started when I came in."

"I don't think so. I haven't checked. They probably didn't. It's a hard pack to open if you don't know how."

He glanced at her curiously. "That explains the cut in the fabric, then. I was wondering why they didn't just open it."

"Was there a fight?" Thorgilja asked quickly. "How did you get those bruises?"

"Fight," Balimund huffed derisively. "Soren whacked me with that stick of his when I wasn't looking. The sneaky little bastard." He grinned a little fiercely into the bottom of his tankard.

"I'm sorry for all this," Thorgilja blurted miserably. He looked over at her, a little surprised.

"Aye, I think you probably are. Sorry more than enough." He took a thoughtful gulp of mead. "The way I see it, though, you did what I would have done. Maybe I wouldn't have broken the door," he acknowledged, with a small smile. "But the fact of the thing is that Asbjorn sullied you and you responded to protect yourself. Only a weakling would have let him say those things without answer. And it's clear to me that you weren't out to hurt anyone." He lowered his tankard and stifled a burp.

"But," he continued more seriously, now gazing into the fire, "the fact of the thing is _also_ that I have a broken door, my assistant is gone, and you might have stirred up a thing or two around here."

Thorgilja gulped. "I can fix the door..."

"Yes, I imagine you can. You'll do so tomorrow. You'll also help me out around here until I can train a new prentice. Luckily, I know one or two young'uns looking for a trade." He set his tankard down on the table with a thump. "And Thorkilly."

She looked up in response, too nervous to correct him. He gazed at her soberly.

"I'll not stop you doing your business around the city, but you're not to wander from the forge when I need you. Nor are you to go looking for trouble."

Thorgilja thought of Brynjolf's invitation and her stomach twisted uncomfortably.

"Am I understood?" he asked. His voice had the ring of steel to it.

"I understand," she said quickly, and he went to pour some more mead, evidently glad to have the serious business over with. "Am I likely to find trouble?" she asked, watching him pour.

He looked up sharply, then realized that she was joking, in her way. "Looks like trouble has no problem finding _you_," he replied, his expression softening. "Here." He handed her the tankard. "You can bring your things into Asbjorn's room. I'll bring his things to the Bee tomorrow for him to pick up." He stood and went to lift her armor into his arms. "Follow me. I'll show you."

She took her pack and followed him through the doorway. She was surprised to discover that it wasn't a single room behind the door, but rather a short hallway. To the right was what must be Balimund's room; the heavy door was shut, but Thorgilja went to have a closer look. He had forged several symbols from iron and nailed them to the door. She traced one with her fingers. _They must be some kind of Nord runes._ They were beautiful, in their way.

Balimund was standing in the room opposite, little more than a closet, with a small iron bed in the corner and a small wooden chest of drawers beside it. "Here, in here. Not much room to walk about, sorry. You'll find it warm enough, though; the chimney's on the other side of the wall, here, see?" Thorgilja came into the room and put her palm on the wall above the bed: it was slightly warm. Balimund edged around her and began taking things out of the drawers and putting them on the bed. "There. That's all Asbjorn's things out. Go on and get unpacked." He gathered the items in his arms and walked out of the room; from the noise, Thorgilja judged he'd gone out to the forge and dumped them on the worktable.

Thorgilja was too tired to spend too much time unpacking, so settled for hanging up her wraps on a hook, kicking off her boots, and putting her armor carefully under the bed. Only then did she remember her weapons – her sword, her mace. Gone. Asbjorn's thief friends had probably taken them. Thorgilja ground her teeth a moment, then shrugged grudgingly. Her weapons were one of a kind; she'd even mined and smelted the ore herself, and spent long hours engraving the hilts. If the thieves were stupid enough to try to sell them in Riften, she'd probably be able to get them back. In the meantime, she'd make other weapons, and better.

A knock on the doorframe made her turn around. "Here," the smith said, thrusting a blanket at her. "Take this. You shouldn't need it, though. It's a warm night. Be ready to work early. You've got a hinge to set straight." He thumped the door closed without another word. Thorgilja took the blanket, blew out the lantern, fell into bed, and was asleep almost instantly.

Balimund went into his room to retrieve a small leather pouch, then sat once again at the table in front of the hearth. He poured himself a mug of ale and opened the pouch, removing a wooden pipe. In the firelight, the pipe glowed almost golden. He packed it carefully and lit it, leaning back in his chair. He smoked meditatively, watching the flames in the fireplace. The sound of Thorgilja's snoring crept into the room, mingling with the low hiss of the smouldering coals. It was almost dawn before Balimund put his pipe away and went to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Thorgilja woke with a start, pulling on her boots before she was fully awake. She rummaged in her pack and pulled out a pair of thick leather gloves and a heavy cotton jerkin, pulling those on as well, and strapping a dagger to her side, just in case. The door to Balimund's room was still shut, and as she entered the kitchen she noticed that the sky was still dim with morning light. It was early.

No matter. There was work to be done, and the earlier the better. Thorgilja busied herself outside, splitting and stacking wood, filling the slack tub with clean snow to melt, wiping the anvil down, sweeping the ash from around the huge forge. She built the forgefire and left the coals to heat while she went to examine the hinge on the door. The strap had been snapped cleanly near the frame and would need to be replaced. Thorgilja found iron near the forge and set about making a new strap. She was so intent on shaping the metal with a peen hammer that she didn't hear the footsteps approaching the forge, stumping through the snow.

"So you _are_ a smith," said an amused voice as she was thrusting the iron back into the coals. Thorgilja yelped and nearly dropped the tongs she was holding. She whirled, one hand reaching for her dagger.

"Easy there, Orc-lass," said the voice, which belonged to a shape standing near the workbench. Thorgilja blinked rapidly to clear the forgefire from her eyes. "I'm not here to harm you."

"Brynjolf," she said, as his shape became clearer. He smiled.

"Brynjolf and no other. Where's Balimund?"

"He's inside," she said a little warily.

"Ah, let him sleep then. It's you I came to talk to." His grin widened, showing a row of white, even teeth. "I hear you've been causing some trouble."

Thorgilja didn't know what to say, so she turned back to the fire, where the strap had heated to a yellow glow. She slid it out of the coals and started hammering again.

"Fine, I can see you're not eager to talk about it." Brynjolf leaned on the workbench. "I'll tell you what I've heard, then, and you can tell me if any of it's true. Fair?" Thorgilja didn't look at him. What should she say? What did he want?

The door to the smith's house banged open and Balimund strode into the yard, smiling. Thorgilja tried not to let her relief show, but kept hammering stonily. "Ah, Thorkilly, I see you've already–" His gaze settled on Brynjolf and he scowled. "Brynjolf. Should have known it wouldn't take _you_ long to show up."

"Morning, Balimund," called Brynjolf cheerfully, giving a small wave. "I thought I could have some words with your new assistant here."

"She's got work to do," Brynjolf growled.

"So have we all," Brynjolf sighed theatrically. "I'm just trying to do mine, my friend." He stood up and his gaze was suddenly serious. He took a few steps towards Balimund and spoke in a low, persuasive voice. "Look. I heard some rumors last night and you know it's my job to keep on top of them. I also want to _help_ you, Balimund, if you can believe that. I know you don't like what I do, but trust me. How many times have we shared a mug of mead? I don't want to see any trouble come to you."

"And will it?" asked Balimund darkly.

"Not if I have anything to say about it. Not to worry. True enough that Asbjorn and his herd have been raising a stink about whatever happened last night, but most assume it's the bleating of sheep, as I do. Your assistant would do best to keep her head down and her nose to the grindstone for awhile, though. That stick of Soren's can pack a wallop." Balimund glanced over his shoulder at the Orc, who was now sullenly bending the strap over the edge of the anvil, forming the roll where the pin would fit snugly. He raised his hand to rub unconsciously at the angry welt on his shoulder, which itched madly.

"It's too bad, really," Brynjolf confided. "I was hoping to have her visit us at the Flagon. Not now!" he added hastily, as Balimund's scowl deepened. "Eight above, Balimund, I want her safe and well same as you. All in good time, after this blows over. Truth told, now. I met your Orc-lass yesterday in the market. She palled Arla, did you know that? Not many can catch her at it. She's quick, that Orc. Strong, too. We could use someone like her. She keeps her head." Brynjolf's gaze wandered over to Thorgilja as he spoke.

"Eight save you if she lose it," Balimund replied. "That's how Asbjorn got it."

"So it's true," Brynjolf mused, forcing his gaze back to the smith. "Folk are saying she's a...well, you know."

"You're well-advised not to ask her about it," Balimund warned. "If it's proof you're wanting, go look at the tree out back. She did that bare-handed." He turned to look Brynjolf directly in the face, his gaze fierce. Brynjolf met his gaze coolly, though he looked unsettled by Balimund's comment about the tree. "I won't have you getting her into trouble. She's a good woman. She wouldn't have hurt him but he insulted her to her face. He called her–" Balimund hesitated, and then repeated the word in a whisper.

Brynjolf's gaze darkened. "R-r-rat," he growled, the word rolling out of his mouth like an ancient curse. "He's learned nothing from it, you know, or rather he's learning all the wrong things. He's turning nasty, that one. Just watch your back for awhile. He and his skeever friends'll be looking out for her, and you too probably. Not that either of you have much to worry about, but rodents don't come at you in the daylight, you know." His gaze turned to the forge. "Don't worry, Balimund, my friend. I'll make sure the rumors go in the right direction." He grinned wolfishly. "It'll just be those five little vermin wanting to nip your toes, and they'll go on their way soon enough, see if they don't."

"My thanks, Brynjolf." Balimund relaxed. "Will you stay for breakfast? I've got stew warming in there."

"I will, thanks. Better than Vekel's slop, Eight bless him. Fine man but not much of a cook."

"Thorkilly!" Balimund called. Thorgilja pretended to have only just noticed them.

"Good morning, Balimund," she said. She held up the hinge, which she had just finished rolling. "Got your hinge finished. Just have to file it."

"Fine. Get that done and then come in for breakfast."

An hour later, Brynjolf had gone, leaving a written request for lockpicks and a shield repair. Balimund handed it across the table to Thorgilja. "You'll make the picks."

"Does he come here often?" Thorgilja asked, glancing at the door where he'd gone. She flushed slightly, knowing he'd passed by the mauled tree on his way. She'd watched him study it, running his hand over the flayed bark. His face had been unreadable as he turned to head for the market.

"Brynjolf? No. He usually sends someone else with any work orders. He's a busy man."

Something in his voice warned Thorgilja to drop it, but she persisted."I met him in the market," Thorgilja said. "He asked me to visit him." Balimund didn't reply, but stood and began to clear the wooden bowls away a little roughly.

"So he said," Balimund replied finally. He turned to look at her, thumping the bowls down on the sideboard. "Look, Thorkilly."

"It's..." she said. "Er, you can call me Thora."

"...Thora, then. Listen, girl. I've known Brynjolf a long time. A very long time. He's made a powerful name for himself in this town, and he's promised me that he'll help us with this Asbjorn matter. But I don't trust him further than that. He's a good man to have on your side, but..." He trailed off, wiping the bowls out with a cloth. "He's on no one's side but his own, really. His work is his life and that's all he cares about."

"What does he do? Is he part of the..."

"Thieves' Guild, yes, and rumor has it he's at or near the top. There are some will also say the Guild is dead and gone, but don't you believe it. They've just gone underground, in more ways than one. May be they're not as strong as they used to be, but you know the saying about wounded animals." Balimund looked up at her and his brow furrowed craggily. "Brynjolf won't have you at the Flagon now, while things are stirred up so. But in a month, or two, he'll ask you to visit him there, maybe do a little job or two for him. I'm warning you that those 'little jobs' may well be the most dangerous. You don't know what he'll really be getting you into." He put the cloth down and threw the small work-order into the fire. "If you're as good as he thinks you are, he'll want you sooner or later, and make no mistake, he can be _very_ persuasive. And it's not my job to tell you what to do and what not. There's lots of folk in Riften've made a pretty penny to-ing and fro-ing for the Guild. As long as you work the forge for me, that's all I'll ask of you. But if you go looking for trouble in this place, you'll likely find more than you can handle. My advice is to stay well away and keep your work honest."

Thorgilja had listened to all of this calmly, taking the bowls from Balimund as he wiped them and stacking them neatly on the shelf.

"What is it you think I do in the world?" she asked finally, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I'm no smith, Balimund."

"No, I guess not," he acknowledged. "You're too far from your forgefire for that."

Thorgilja stood a moment in the middle of the room, thinking. "Come with me," she said, gesturing for him to follow her into her room. "I want to show you something."

He did, to find her dragging her pack onto the bed. She muttered something under her breath as she untied the knots that held it shut. The knots slid away easily and she tugged the mouth of the pack open. She rummaged a moment and pulled out a small leather bag that was stuffed full. She murmured another charm as she untied the knots of the bag and upended it over the blanket.

Gems spilled out everywhere, forming glittering mounds on the rough wool. Balimund counted at least a dozen diamonds, a handful of sapphires, a fistful of garnets, emeralds and rubies bouncing and rolling on the coarse cloth. That small bag held more wealth than was contained in Balimund's entire house and workshop. Thorgilja shook the bag and a few nuggets of gold and moonstone thumped out, too. "Huh," Thorgilja said. "I must have put the ore into another bag. I wonder...?" She hunted, and found another larger bag; she opened it and showed Balimund its contents: silver, malachite, more moonstone.

Balimund was struck dumb. He stared at the piles of stones, blinking rapidly. He stared at Thorgilja, a hint of real fear flickering across his face. "_Who are you?_" he demanded.

"I'm Thorgilja," she replied, smiling. "Just Thorgilja."

"How did you...?"

"Don't worry. No one misses these. I prefer to think of it as freeing these jewels from the darkness where I found them." She started scooping the stones back into the bag. She saved a few of the largest gems and piled them on her hand. She thrust her hand at Balimund.

"What...?"

"These are for you," she said. "Please take them. I promise you, I wouldn't give you any dishonest treasure. I don't even have any." She smiled again, evidently proud of herself. Balimund struggled to speak, though whether it was fury or terror or gratitude that stopped his tongue, he couldn't say.

"I...you...you robbed _barrows_?!" he spluttered.

"You _could_ say that," she shrugged, "but it wouldn't be true. I would never disturb any sleeping souls, Balimund. Never. I swear it. These gems were not taken from the dead. I promise."

"Then where...?" Balimund stared at the gems in her hand, not moving to take them. "Where did you find them?"

"Bandit camps, mostly. Sometimes I do go into barrows, _if_ they've been disturbed. I send uneasy souls to rest."

"Uneasy souls?"

"Draugr."

Balimund shuddered. "_Draugr?_ But...those are just...they're stories."

"They're not. I've _seen_ them, Balimund. I've killed them – well, killed them again. Their eyes glow blue. They don't come out into the daylight, which is why few see them. But they're there. Please believe me. They're there. I've fought them." Balimund felt sure she was telling the truth, and a chill crept up his spine. He looked at the gems again and seemed to be staring into them, past them, into space. "Please take these," she persisted, and the smith saw her again: a young Orc woman with a plea in her tone. "I want you to have them. For helping me. I can't...it's important to me. Please."

Balimund finally opened his hand and let her spill the gems into it.

"We'll need more iron for the picks," he said, and disappeared into his room with the gems. He reappeared with a piece of paper. "Here. Can you write?"

"Yes."

"Take this. Write down the iron and, oh, some charcoal. Two loads should do. Ask if there's any leather strips, too. Supposed to have the tanner in a few days ago but maybe he got delayed. Ask anyway."

Thorgilja wondered a little at Balimund's sudden change in temper, but was beginning to learn that he kept his decisions to himself and once a thing was decided, there was nothing more to be said about it. He'd evidently decided to accept her gems and, therefore, keep her secret and let her stay. She beamed at the paper as she scratched, and left the forge for the trader's, the sound of hammering ringing in the air behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

The sullen spring passed slowly. The snow melted into puddles of dank slush and reeking mud, dredged by carts and barrows and bored children with sticks. Thorgilja had thrown herself eagerly into the work of a smith's apprentice, rising earlier with each retreating dawn, and began to be known around Riften as a woman of skill. For the first few weeks, she'd ignored the hissed curses and muttered insults that darkened the corners of rooms when she entered; now, with her skills proven at forge, bar and brawl, the whispers grew fewer and quieter. There were even people in the city who would actually speak well of her, even when she wasn't in the room.

"Thora," called Balimund from the workbench, where he had been hammering a breastplate back into shape. Thorgilja turned from the forge, where she'd just thrust a steel bar deep into the glowing heart of charcoal.

"Balimund," she replied.

"Here," he said tersely, thrusting a scribbled-on paper at her. She scanned it carefully; his handwriting was none too good at the best of times. "One corundum ingot. Five rubies...too bad, I don't have any rubies left...Charcoal, _three_ loads?" She looked back up at him. "Do I read that right?"

"_Yes_, Thora girl. What with your Skyforge weapons and the new order from the Stormcloaks, _and_ the Jarl's new scepter...we're going to need a lot of heat, miss." He sighed and wiped his forehead. "I know you're working on that new short sword, but I'd like your help with the spearheads for the Stormcloaks this evening. Your sharps will have to wait another day." He continued hammering wearily.

"Of course." Thorgilja said quickly. She carefully removed the steel bar from the coals and set it aside. "Anything else while I'm out?"

"Pick up some ale, would you? Bread, some salt."

"Yes, of course. I'll go now." Thorgilja lifted the heavy leather apron over her head and hung it up on the hook near the door. She stopped in her room briefly to retrieve some coins to trade with, then made her way to the trader's for the charcoal, bread, salt, corundum and ale. The gems would have to be traded for at the market.

The market was quieter than usual that day. Thorgilja supposed that the dour weather had something to do with it; it was drizzling steadily as she stumped through the mud towards the stalls.

"Eh, Thorgilja," said a low voice. It was unusual for anyone to use her full name; most in Riften knew her as Thora, which was easier to say. She turned in some puzzlement to see Brynjolf, evidently just finishing up some trade at a tanner's stall. She hadn't seen him for weeks, since he'd approached her at the forge. He'd trimmed his red beard and there was a new ring on his forefinger, finely wrought. "Business" was apparently improving. He beckoned her closer; she furrowed her brow, but followed him to a quiet corner. Brynjolf leaned casually on a barrel. "Getting a little tired of honest toil, lass?" he asked, nudging her conspiratorially.

"What?"

"Come now," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "You know and I know that before you arrived here, you never made an honest septim in your life. Gems and jewels, lass? You don't find those just lying about. You're not afraid of the dark, I'm thinking."

Thorgilja's bewilderment turned rapidly to suspicious irritation. "If there's something you want to say to my face, Brynjolf–"

"Wha– No, no, lass, you mistake me," he said quickly. He gave his best disarming smile. "Believe me, I don't need to know anything about what you've got."

She glowered. "You apparently already _know _what I've got, which means you've been watching me."

"Keeping my ears open, that's all. Oh, you've been careful enough trading, I'll credit you that. Very smart. But those daggers you forged for Hemming..._beautiful_ emeralds in the hilt. I haven't seen their like here in ages."

Thorgilja bit back a curse.

"I'll cause no trouble to Balimund," she replied flatly.

"Not if you're as good as I think you are." His blue eyes twinkled. "How long do you plan to chop wood and hammer steel for him? He's a good honest man with a good honorable life, none will deny it. But," Brynjolf leaned closer, to murmur into her ear. "But I think you'll agree that the good honorable life is not cut to fit all of us. Not me, and not you, unless I'm very much mistaken."

"You're not wrong," Thorgilja allowed. She watched two mud-spattered children chasing a cat, which whisked its long tail from their grasp and leapt to a windowsill, then onto a neighboring roof. The children spat and swore.

"As it happens," he continued quietly, "I've got something in the way of an immediate opportunity. Like fishing?"

"I've cast some hooks in my time."

"Good. Wait for my signal, then go get the silver ring from Madesi's strongbox. When you've got it, plant it on Brand-Shei."

Thorgilja straightened and started for the colorful stalls. Brynjolf smiled to himself. "She doesn't waste time, that one," he murmured, then crossed to his own stall, climbing onto a box to make himself more visible. Almost everyone stopped what they were doing to watch him.

Thorgilja pretended to be watching Brynolf too. She saw Madesi turn to observe the Nord, whose voice was booming across the market about some cure-all potion or other. He was a born salesman, Thorgilja noted. He had his audience captivated. She glanced quickly about her, then one last time at Brynjolf, to confirm that no one was watching her. Then, she vanished.

Brynjolf had finished his presentation and was actually doing better business than usual selling whatever useless tonic Elgrim had mixed up this time. He even sold a bottle to Madesi. He heard a small commotion start at the other side of the market and did his best not to show interest. He heard Brand-Shei cry, "I've never seen it in my life!" and the guard Sig issuing some rough retort. Brynjolf finished his business quickly and retreated to the Bee and Barb for a mug of ale, taking a seat a quiet alcove. It had been almost _too_ fast. Keerava set down his mug and he took a long draught.

"My terms," said Thorgilja. Brynjolf started in surprise, nearly spilling his drink; where had she come from?! "I work _if _and when I like and I can refuse any job at any time. You'll pay me immediately after I finish a job. Thirty percent. I get Guild support and a reliable fence. No harm or harry to Balimund; that means no funny business." She turned her head to regard him with one golden eye. "I swear, Brynjolf, if I'm left holding the bag, I will take the hand that gave it to me."

Brynjolf swallowed whatever words had leapt to his mouth and smiled coolly, seeming to ignore the threat. "Thirty percent is quite the cut for an untried hand."

"If you didn't need me, you wouldn't have approached me yourself."

"True." Brynjolf reached into his pocket and drew out a silver necklace. He handed it to her and signaled for two more mugs of ale. Thorgilja studied the delicate pendant. It glowed ice blue in the candlelight.

"That's got strong enchantments on it," he explained. "Swords are sharper and maces lighter when you wear it."

"No," Thorgilja said. Brynjolf frowned at her over his raised mug.

"Pardon, lass? That's your payment."

"That's _part_ of my payment."

"Now, hold on just a minute."

"Just how much do you think your reliable fence will give me for this?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow. "I'd wager...not enough. I have no use for trinkets." Keerava brought the mugs of ale and retreated quickly behind the bar, wiping out mugs with extreme nonchalance.

"Fine, fine, of course you're right. You're not the type to wear baubles, I suppose. Here." Brynjolf sighed and pulled his own purse out of his pocket. He pulled a handful of coins out and counted a few silver pennies onto the table. He glowered at her as she began to speak, and dumped the handful into her open hand, keeping the pennies for himself. She shut her mouth and he smiled ruefully. "You drive a hard bargain, Thorgilja."

She gave him a rare smile, eyes gleaming. "You'll find that you get what you pay for. Excuse me; I'm already late getting back to Balimund. He's waiting for supplies."

"Come by the Flagon with the trinket. I'll see you get a good deal from our shopkeep, and we can talk business."

"I'll do that." Thorgilja raised the mug to her lips and drained the ale in several mighty gulps. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and extended it towards Brynjolf. He stood and shook her hand, then watched her leave, wondering if he'd just done something very stupid or very smart. He signaled for a glass of brandy to follow the ale, and traced the grain of the table with his fingers.


End file.
